GOODWILL HUNTING
by KKBELVIS
Summary: Sam and Dean find themselves in a 'Wham-O' of a situation at a thrift store on Christmas Eve. Time set: Early season one. Quirky humor with a side order of hurt, drunk, and sappy. Some swear words. Story complete, posting all at once.
1. Chapter 1

GOODWILL HUNTING

By: Karen B.

Summary: Sam and Dean find themselves in a 'Wham-O' of a situation at a thrift store on Christmas Eve. Time set: Early season one. Quirky humor with a side order of hurt, drunk, and soupy/sappy crap. Some swear words. Story complete, posting all at once in four chapters.

Disclaimer: Not the owner

Rated: Quirky with a side order of hurt, drunk, and sappy. There be swear words. This was originally a two-shot, but I expanded it into chapters for easier reading - posting all at once.

**Quote: _"_This_ caused the 1977 New York blackout. A practical joke by the Great Attractor. __He thought it was funny as hell.__"_**

**— Agent K – from the movie Men In Black.**

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Snow fell like glittering pixie dust under the soft glow of the old-fashion street lamps that were decorated with wreaths, red velvet bows, and Christmas garland. It was six pm and dark outside, the lampposts the only light that lit their way as they drove down the center of the small historical village of Bedford Falls.

Dean slowed the Impala as they went past the town square and rolled his window down.

Tiny specks of snowflakes blew into the Impala melting as soon as they came into contact with the warm air flowing from the car's heater vents.

Outside, every tree and statue and park bench was wrapped with strings of light - red, green, white, and blue – all blinking in time to the piped in Christmas music.

"Rockin' around the Christmas tree have a happy Holiday," Dean sung along, shooting a cheesy grin over at his brother who was slouched down in the passenger seat.

Sam sighed heavily, and closed his eyes. "Dean, what are you doing?"

"Taking time out to enjoy the season, Grumpy Grinch," Dean laughed, slowing the Impala down further.

Sam never enjoyed the season. Growing up all Christmas meant to him was dark motel rooms, cold cereal, and stolen presents. That was if they got presents at all.

The only time Christmas meant anything to Sam were the ever-so-few Christmas's when he was a kid and got left behind at Bobby's house, while Dean and dad went on a hunt. But the best times, the most normal of times, were the last few Christmas's he'd spent with Jess. And now that was over too, because he couldn't protect her.

An image of Jessica padding barefoot across their candle-lit apartment to stand in front of their tree holding a silver star in her hand, and a warm smile on her face, vividly entered his mind.

"Merry Christmas, I love you, baby," she whispered to him.

"I love you, too," Sam whispered back, leaning down to kiss her fully on the lips. "Come on." He took her by the hand, and together they placed the Silver Star atop the tree they'd picked out together.

"Perfect," she giggled and started nipping playfully along his neck.

Sam's pulse quickened and a flush of heat along with a deep-into-his soul desire crashed down all around him.

"I want you, baby," she said her breath tickling his neck.

For Sam, she was like sunlight breaking through the darkest of storms. "I want you more," he said, his body trembling with anticipation as he took Jessica into his arms and stepped backward until he fell onto the bed, taking her with him.

"I want you, I want you, I want you," she nibbled on his earlobe, holding his face inbetween her delicate hands.

"So, what do you want for Christmas this year, Sam? " Dean's happy outburst unexpectedly cut through the serenity of the daydream.

"What?" Sam clumsily sat up straight in his seat, Jessica's voice in his ear and her grip on his face fading. _It all seemed so real._

"Sam, where you even listening to me?"

"Yeah, sure, that sounds good, Dean," Sam slurred, woozily. "Whatever you say." He dropped his hands to his lap self-consciously, the intensity of the dream manifesting itself in a very real way.

He nervously ran his eyes around the Impala. The subdued lighting and shadows dancing across the dashboard disoriented him further, and he raised a hand to his mouth swearing he could still feel the warmth of her lips under his fingertips. _These dreams of his were getting stronger and out of his control._

"Hey." Dean reached over and gave Sam's shoulder a rough punch.

"Ouch," Sam bit out loudly, wincing and rubbing at his aching shoulder, still feeling very disconnected. "You're probably right, okay, Dean," he said in a gravelly voice, wiggling uncomfortably in his seat and looking out the passenger window trying to ignore the burn of his brother's stare. "We should pull over somewhere for the night."

"Of course I'm right. I'm always right…I'm awesome," Dean said, pursing his lips. "But it is not okay…because that is not what I asked you, Sam," he grumbled.

Sam's jaw muscles twitched, head coming around to stare at Dean with brows raised. _What then?_

"I asked you what you wanted for Christmas," Dean huffed in irritation, pulling a large bag of peanut M &M's out of his jacket pocket.

"I don't know." Sam let out a pained moan giving Dean an is-that-all eye roll. "How about we give each other a hug and call it even," he growled expressionlessly.

"How about I punch you in the other arm, smartass," Dean threatened, shoving a handful of candy into his mouth. "Harder," he added chomping messily.

Sam shrugged. _Have at._

Dean didn't like the exhaustion in his brother's tone or actions. He knew Sam had been flipping through his mental card-index of Jessica memories. He'd been doing that more and more, zoning out during waking hours. Not to mention the severe night terrors he kept having, how he'd wake trembling, drenched in cold sweat, and screaming out her name.

"I know what," Dean chimed in going for a –It's A Wonderful Life – tone. "How about a new hairdo, maybe the master edition of the Jeopardy game, or maybe," he said in a low lusty tone cocking a brow toward Sam's lap. "A…you know…" he giggled, taking one more handful of M &M's before stuffing the bag back into his jacket pocket. "…a kilt to hide your manhood." He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Wow, "Sam barked in irritation. "Really, Dean?"

"Really, Sammy," Dean clicked his tongue at Sam's lap; going back to watching the road.

Sam had no witty comeback. Cheeks flushed with embarrassment, he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to get his still rapidly breathing heart –and other things –under control.

"I take it that'd be a 'no' on the Kilt?" Dean said sounding a little put out.

"That'd be a 'no' on anything," Sam grumbled. He couldn't tell Dean about his dreams. How they were like watching himself …watching his life. How they sometimes came true. Like that night.

"You okay over there, kiddo?"

Sam fidgeted.

"Well? Are you?" Dean pressured.

"Ahem," Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah… seriously, I'm fine, Dean," he muttered turning and touching his forehead to the cool window.

Outside, a rush of wind sent snow swirling around an eight-foot lit-up snowman, and Santa's sleigh, jingling the bells hanging around Rudolph's neck.

Dean cast a look over at Sam just in time to see him curl in on himself and shiver. He knew it wasn't just from the cold wind, but quickly rolled his window up anyway, knowing his little brother was anything but fine. He felt the urge to hug the kid, but no amount of hugs would make this go away. No amount of explaining to Sam over-and-over that it wasn't his fault. Dean could explain his ass off; explain until the next ice age came. Sam would never let go of that guilt. The boy was hurting big-time and had barely slept in weeks, the nightmares becoming more frequent. Sam was unwilling to talk about anything, so Dean would have to try another form of cleverly disguised, Winchester therapy. Cleverly disguised in the form of drugs or booze or maybe just plain old pissing Sam off by being as annoying and frustrating as he could be, maybe toss in a prank or two, or maybe he could –

"Economize," Dean blurted his thoughts out loud. Flicking his wrist he took a hard left, sending the Impala fishtailing into a snowplowed parking lot.

"What the…" Sam slid across the bench seat bumping up against Dean.

"Get off me." Dean shrugged his shoulder roughly.

Sam sat up, flashing Dean a bitchy look.

"What is it, dude?"

"You're driving, dude," Sam snapped.

"I know," Dean grinned. "I'm all that and then some."

Sam pressed his lips thin.

"Don't get your kilt in a bunch, Samantha. Next time try wearing your seatbelt," Dean suggested bluntly.

"No kilt, Dean." Sam gave his brother an oblique look, scooting back over to the passenger seat. He peered out the front windshield at the large brick building in front of them. "Goodwill?" He frowned.

Dean waved a hand toward the building. "It's what the sign reads, college boy."

"You know I prefer The Salvation Army," Sam drawled.

"Whatever, Fifth Avenue, it'll be fun….you do remember fun don't you, Princess stick up her skirt?"

Sam huffed out a long breath and pressed stubbornly back against the seat. "You go in. I don't need anything."

"Bro! It's Christmas Eve."

"So."

"So we go in and buy up the store. No bargains this go round, we buy only items with the tags still on," Dean said excitedly. "Dad's rules don't apply tonight, Sammy. No penny pinching, dollar stretching, or tightening of ones belt," Dean ordered sternly. "Unless." He frowned. "That's how you keep your pants up of course," he laughed heartily.

"Ha-ha," Sam fake-laughed.

A round, short lady wearing a long, brown coat and large furry hat – ear flaps down and tied under her chin – hurried past the Impala through the swirling snow.

"See that." Dean waved a hand out the window at the lady as she quickly pulled the door open and entered the store. "Even fancy beaver-hat lady shops the Goodwill."

"Ushanka," Sam growled.

"Whoa, hey, buddy." Dean worriedly gripped Sam's shoulder. "You going to be sick?"

"Ushanka, Dean." Sam annoyingly shrugged Dean's hand away. "It's a traditional Russian winter hat…the word Ushanka translates from the Russian language as 'with ears'."

Dean stared at Sam completely dumbfounded. "Is hitting the books all you ever did at that fancy university, geek? Didn't you go to any…you know…?" Dean waggled his brows sexually. "Frat parties?"

"Once," Sam admitted in all seriousness. "It was awful. Bunch of drunken girls wearing skimpy bunny costumes in four-inch heels dancing on tabletops," Sam rattled off trying to hide his smile and keep his voice neutral, all the while watching Dean squirm in his seat. "It was really kind-of awkward and ridiculous," Sam shuddered as he continued. " They were all squeezably soft, bumping and grinding, grinding and bumping, while a bunch of drunken guys stood around stuffing dollar bills in their…" Sam cocked his head, and waggled his brows. "You know."

"Yeah, Sammy, I know." Dean took several hard swallows, his breaths coming in short pants, his mind wandering.

Sam gave Dean's chest a backhanded slap.

Dean startled shaking his head. "Huh? What?"

"Shopping, Dean, remember?" Sam snipped, exiting the car, and then turning to bend down and stare in at his brother. "You might want to buy yourself a apron," he clucked his tongue, eyeing his brother's lap, and then slammed the car door shut.

"Smartass," Dean muttered, shutting off the engine and also exiting the car.

Sam stood tall next to the Impala staring off into the night. The falling snow was already settling on the car – quiet and cold and sparkling. It reminded him of the starry night he and Jessica had gone out to buy their tree. How they crunched around the tree farm sipping hot cocoa and eating warm chestnuts out of a paper bag searching for the perfect spruce.

Dean watched Sam carefully, his face looking just about as white. "Problem, bro?"

"No," Sam said smoothly, but still didn't budge.

Ever since that horrible night of the fire Dean had kept vigil. Knowing his kid brother was probably only a heartbeat away from a meltdown. He didn't know how he was going to make this okay for Sam. For now all he could do was push the focus elsewhere.

Sam still hadn't moved.

Dean's attention went to the store. "We're in luck, buddy. Fifty percent off, "he read the sign hanging in the window. "What are we waiting for? Christmas?" he joked, bending down to snatch up a bit of snow and balling it up to toss lightly at Sam.

Sam snapped out of whatever zone he'd been in, brushing the snow off his jacket as he shot Dean a ba-humbug-look that could kill.

"Right, you hate Christmas," Dean squawked. "So just think of this as the regular yearly Winchester shopping spree," he said.

"Yeah, 'cause that's always fun," Sam deadpanned.

"Told you, Sam, dad's rules don't apply, but mine do."

Sam blew a piece of hair out of his eyes. "And what are your rules, pray tell?"

"No praying about it, Samantha…one," Dean ticked off. "We don't leave empty handed. And two… no purchasing used boxers."

"Ewww." Sam squirmed uncomfortably.

"And three… you, my dear brother," Dean pointed a stern finger at Sam. "No more ugly dog-shirts."

"You bought that shirt for me, Dean."

"Oh, yeah. I take the ugly part back then." Dean scowled, then brightened, "Remember the 'Save Ferris' shirt I bought? Man, what a find that was."

"Sorry to inform, big brother, but I bought that shirt for your thirteenth birthday," Sam pushed off the Impala and trudged through the sprinkling of white flurries toward the store, hands jammed into his pockets.

"That shirt was so cool." Dean trailed closely behind.

"I know," Sam said with a smile. "Unlike you…I always buy things with panache. "

"I buy…you…I know…pan…ass," Dean's tongue tripped all over itself searching for a snazzy comeback and coming up way short.

"After you," Sam said gripping the frost-coated doorknob and tugging the door open waving Dean in first with a flourish.

Dean glared at Sam as he barged into the shop, the door blowing shut behind them.

Blinking away the snowflakes that had clung to their eyelashes, they stood side-by- side taking a moment to glance around.

The walls were drab-grey matching the tiled flooring, and the place was warehouse-huge. Rows and rows of clothing, shelves overstocked with housewares, knickknacks, lamps, board games, stuffed animals, used furniture, and boxes chock-full of books and records and all sorts of cool things.

"Jackpot," Dean sung out. "Would you look at this place? We might even find the crown jewels in here, Jimmy Hoffa, maybe even Buffet's lost shaker of salt. Ha!" Dean laughed. _He was so damn awesomely amusing. "_What say you, Sam?"

"I say Batman action figures and lunchboxes." Sam gestured toward those very items set on a shelf.

"Like I said before." Dean grinned hugely, "Jackpot."

Sam sniffed the air. "Smells like mothballs."

"Nah." Dean took a whiff. "More like butterscotch rum."

There came a bang and a clatter.

Sam and Dean stiffened instinctively going for their guns – guns they'd left in the car.

"Well isn't that the shit!" A plump, short man using a baseball bat as a walking stick, and wearing a chalky-grey suit, and a novelty light-up Christmas bow tie woozily weaved around a stack of boxes. "Ralphie," he shouted loudly. "I told you to lock the front door so we could close early tonight," he shot over his shoulder.

A door on the opposite side of the room swung open and a thin, gangly teenage boy about as tall as Sam and wearing a green shirt and ripped jeans struggled up the last few steps carrying an armload of Christmas lights.

"Basements leaking again, dad," the kid squawked.

"Shit's always got to hit the fan around here," the shop owner hissed. "But never mind that now, just get those shitty lights untangled," the man bellowed, raising the tip of the bat to point at Sam and Dean. "Cash only, we are supposed to be closed….you've got twenty-three minutes, and you better buy something," he grouched.

"Twenty-three?" Sam frowned at Dean. "Run or shop?"

Dean gave the man a curt 'yes sir' nod. "We shop," he said taking Sam by the bicep and steering him deeper into the store.

"And remember," Holly-jolly-guy slurred from behind. "A man's success depends on the clothes he wears…I shit you not"

**Turn The page...**


	2. Shop Till You Drop

Chapter Two

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"Hey, Sammy, how's this look?"

"You won't find much success in that, man," Sam said dully, not bothering to look as he reached for a green-clothed, hardcover off a bookshelf.

"You didn't even look," Dean grumbled from behind.

Sam huffed and turned around, book in hand.

"Check out these island beauties." Dean held up a brightly colored, blue and gold Hawaiian shirt on a hanger, matching it to his body. "Girls in grass skirts and leis. Aloha, Mr. Hand," he chimed and nodded happily.

"Ohhhh, God!" Sam's eyes popped wide.

"Right?" Dean smiled hugely, pressing the shirt closer to his chest. "It even has these little coconut shell buttons." He pointed to one of 'said' buttons. "I look awesome."

Sam squinted hard. "I could go blind from your pure awesomeness," he drawled sarcastically shaking his head in rejection.

Dean's smile fell from his face. "Whatever, Richard Gere," he mumbled, hanging the shirt back with the others.

"Not being a dick here, Dean, being a good brother and not letting you wear stupid clothes. Panache...remember?" Sam smirked going back to examining the book, and trying hard not to let Dean see him getting choked up.

Jessica.

She was everywhere he looked.

Pain washed over him silently.

Captured images he'd never forget and needed no camera to remember floated through his mind. Their first date his best friend Brady had set up for them - dinner for two on the roof of their apartment –votive candles lit all around, their first walk, holding hands strolling around and feeding the swans, the first time he'd told her he loved her, and not even a second later she had told him right back.

There should have been so many more 'firsts' together, but now all he had left were their 'lasts'.

Their last meal, that last song, one last kiss before he left to go help Dean find dad.

Sam reverently turned the yellowed pages of the book he still held. They loved reading to each other curled up in bed. And this…this was the last book they'd read together.

"And what are you gawking at?" Dean rudely plucked the book from Sam's hand startling him from his thoughts.

"Hey!" Sam protested, hands falling to his sides.

"Gross," Dean snipped, handling the book warily, sensing a quick change of mindset was in order for his brother."It's stained and the binding is loose," he remarked in disgust. "We're supposed to be buying clothes, Sam. What are you doing gravitating toward the hardcovers?"

"I like vintage books," Sam argued back falteringly, trying hard to hide the hitch in his tone.

Dean flipped the book over and read the title along the binding out loud, "A Tramp Abroad?" He gazed up at Sam, a dirty look in his eyes. "Didn't know you had it in you, little brother," he laughed, thumbing through the worn-thin pages.

"Get your mind out of the porn, Dean. It's about two American men...tourists...making their way through Europe together."

"Wrong kind of porn," Dean griped, flicking through a few more pages.

Frustrated, Sam puffed up his cheeks up like a chipmunk who'd stored too many nuts in its mouth. "It's Mark Twain," he blew out in one long breath.

"You mean as in Huckleberry?" Dean asked dryly. "That guy with the unruly gray hair and overgrown mustache to go with it?"

"That guy was nothing less than a national treasurer," Sam grunted in annoyance.

"Hey, speaking of Huckleberries," Dean said, humor shading his voice. "Remember when you were four and you shoved a blueberry up your nose?"

"Err…" Sam shrugged. "Something about a pair of tweezers and a flashlight?"

"You forgot about the pepper and jar of Vaseline," Dean reminded causally.

Sam stared at Dean in awkward brooding silence.

"Well what'd you expect me to do? Take you to the ER?"

"Dad was pissed, I remember that," Sam decidedly piped up.

"You don't remember crap, Sammy, do you?" Dean squawked. "Dad never knew, and I never could get it out….pretty sure it's still up in there." Dean paused a beat. "Just like that anal probe of yours. Ha!"

"Not funny, Dean," Sam trumpeted.

Dean laughed devilishly. "You do know, Sammy, it's not the size of a hole that's important, it's what's in it that matters," he snickered under his breath and smoothly shoved the book onto the shelf with the others. "Let's go check out the vintage blue jeans," he said strolling off.

Sam followed with a frown on his face, curiously pushing and testing the sides of his nose as they made their way down one of the crowded aisles.

"Son of a bitch." Dean suddenly rushed past Sam, squashing him up against a varnished table and rattling the china dishes set there. "Sammy, check it out," he whooped.

"Now what?" Sam said, his voice dripping with annoyance as he just managed to save a teacup from shattering onto the floor.

"I always wanted one of these babies," Dean sung out.

Sam struggled back upright and stared over at his ridiculously easy –to – distract brother.

"Isn't this a friggin' great lamp?" Dean ran his hand up and down a well-shaped ladies leg donned in fish-net stalking, and wearing a spikey ten-inch heeled black-pump.

Sam curled his lip letting out a disgusted snort.

"Electric sex." Dean nodded happily clutching at the calf and wrapping his fingers tightly around the leg. "Puts the 'good' in Goodwill," he exclaimed.

"Oh, no." Sam winced. "No, no, no."

"Come on, Francis," Dean whined, following behind. "This here lamp –" He rubbed the leg as if it were a magic lamp that would produce not just any genie, but the 'I Dream' kind. "This, dear brother, is exactly why we don't shop at Dillard's," he explained.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Next thing you know you'll be fondling a naked Barbie doll." Sam forcefully shot back, and turned to walk away.

"You mean like this one?" Dean called out.

Sam froze, going wood- straight before swiveling back around reluctantly.

Dean smiled mischievously holding up a topless Barbie. "Ken got a little too frisky and ran off with her shirt," he let out a belly laugh." _His plan of distracting Sam was going awesomely._

Sam deflated and blinked repeatedly at the flesh-colored doll, then closed his eyes and took in a few calming breaths finally understanding what was going on here.

"Thanks, Dean, but you don't have to…you know...I get it but -" he waved a hand about the store. "I'm fine. Really," he said softly, then pivoted on his heels and quickly walked away.

"Damn it." Dean dropped his head, chin to chest, staring down at the floor. "You're losing your touch, Winchester."

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Finding a rack of blue jeans, Sam rummaged through them searching the tags for just the right size and shade of soft-blue denim. Dean had gone through a lot of trouble trying to redirect his thoughts for a while…the least he could do was play along.

Not finding his size, Sam moved on from the vintage jean aisle, and instead went to flipping through wooden crates full of record albums. According to his brother, nothing would ever sound as good as vinyl. Weeding through cover after boring cover of Presley, Humperdinck, Parton, and Newton he finally came across the holy grail of all holy grails – a near flawless looking copy of Led Zeppelin's 1968 debut album.

"Oh, wow!" he exclaimed. "Dean's going to go nuts for this," he lowered his voice, glancing all around. Good. Dean wasn't anywhere nearby. He opened the jacket to check the condition of the record inside.

"Holy–don't open that!" Dean's panicked voice echoed from behind him, followed by a deafening crash.

Sam spun around hiding the album behind his back expecting to see his brother standing there, guns blazing, but Dean was nowhere in sight.

"Stop!" Dean's disembodied voice shouted again, coming from the back of the store. "I said don't."

_What the? _Sam dropped the album back into the crate with the others and made a mad dash toward the sound of his pissed brother, knocking over a glass vase and sending it shattering to the floor in his haste.

"Lady," Dean yelled again. "Let go."

"Dean!" Sam skidded around an antique highboy dresser and slid to an abrupt stop. "What? What the hell's happening?" he panted, seeing Dean and Ushanka-lady grappling for possession of a wooden box.

"Dude!" Dean swiveled sideways to face Sam. "She let the crazy out," he yelped fearfully.

"It's mine." Ushanka-lady tried again to wrench the box away from Dean. "Find your own," she squealed.

"Give it." Dean yanked on the box, finally gaining full possession and tucking it protectively against his chest.

Sam crinkled his forehead when he saw the sigils carved intricately on the exterior of the box, and then looked up questioningly at Dean. "What was in it?"

"I'm finding the manager," the lady threatened in a chilly voice, her mouth set ridged as she stomped off, her large furry hat wobbling about on top her head as she went.

"I can't be to sure," Dean shook his head frantically out of breath. "But its super- fast. It rolled around in the box, and then bounced out."

"Bounced?" Sam cocked his head off to the side, glancing around.

"Yeah, Sammy… bounced," Dean repeated in agitation. "Like ninety-miles an hour ceiling to floor–bounced." He waved a hand up and down like an air traffic controller gone wild. "Busting crap up as it went."

"Whatever it is, Dean, we have to get it back in that box."

"Have to find it first. Bitch leap-frogged over toward housewares." Box in hand, Dean reeled around and headed down an aisle .

"What'd it look like?" Sam asked, hot on Dean's heels.

Dean glanced back over his shoulder. "Remember those rainbow colored bouncy balls we used to get out of gumball machines when we were kids?"

"You mean Super Balls?" Sam muttered. "How can I forget," he drawled. "You used to wing them at me all the time."

"I was bored," Dean defended with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"You were a jerk," Sam volleyed.

"You try being stuck for days on end in a twenty foot by twenty foot square room with a geek little brother and fuzzy television set and tell me how you fair."

"Stupid," Sam hissed, "You gave me a black eye once, Dean, and I don't even know how many welts."

"Yeah, I did," Dean said with a smile, a little too much fondness in his tone.

They turned a corner and came to a standstill in front of an old Kitchen mixer.

"Dean, those things are indestructible," Sam said worriedly. "Made out of a relatively hard elastomer Polybutadienealloy and dubbed Zectron, not to mention exhibiting a remarkable 0.92 coefficient of restitution when bounced on hard surfaces."

Dean gaped at Sam wordlessly, beyond amazed at the copious amounts of weirdness floating around inside his brother's giant-sized skull. "Whatever," he finally found his voice. "Point is, this one was grapefruit-sized, fleshy pink in color, and I swear, Sammy, I think it had eyes."

"Eyes?" Sam questioned doubtfully.

"Eyes." Dean made a V-shape with his fingers and pointed at his own eyes. "Two of them," he huffed in exasperation. "And a mouth with teeth. It damn near ripped my pocket trying to get at my M &M's, man."

"Huh." Sam nodded. "Okay, fine…we got a super Super Ball on our hands."

"With a sweet tooth fetish," Dean pressed.

"Okay, with a sweet tooth fetish. So what then?" Sam pondered, "Residual hunting, possession, black magic?"

Dean shrugged. "Does it matter? It's obviously cursed and beaver-hat lady let it out of the box."

Sam scowled. "Curse boxes are always locked to insure that the object remains safe inside. How did she get it open?"

"There was no lock on this one," Dean dully informed. "Beaver-hat lady –"

"Ushanka."

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam. "She just blatantly opened the bitch." He paused, hearing the patter of footsteps heading their way.

The plump store manager came barreling down the aisle, a baseball bat gripped tight in his hand, followed by beaver-hat lady. "There he is. That's him," the round woman yelled, completely livid. "That's the man."

"Just what we need now," Dean barked, "Holly-Jolly meets The Beav."

"Ushanka," Sam revised.

"Hat-lady," Dean compromised, holding the box behind his back and plastering on a smile as the two angry civilians approached.

Hat-lady still had that same rigid jaw and outraged look on her face. Silently she held out her hand toward Dean, and tapped her black boot to the floor fuming and demanding he hand her the box.

"You two!" The store owner stepped in, pointing his bat at first to Dean and then at Sam. "Give Mrs. Winfield her jewelry box and then get the hell out of my store the old-fashion way… by beating feet, and do see that you let the door smack you in the ass on your way out or I'll beat you out with my bat." He waved the Louisville Slugger in the air threateningly, taking a step forward.

"Look!" Dean snapped, standing his ground and whipping the box out from behind his back. "This is no ordinary jewelry box you two dumb fu–"

"Dean!" Sam slapped a hard hand down onto his brother's shoulder, curbing Dean's less than gentle tactics.

"That does it!" The plump shop owner indignantly yelled readying to swing his bat and aiming for Dean's right knee.

"Hey. Hey!" Sam slid in front of Dean in one gliding step and shoved his brother protectively behind him.

"Sam," Dean protested, trying to skirt past.

"Ma'am." Sam reached back pressing a firm hand into Dean's chest keeping him in place and shutting him up. "I apologies for my brother here," he said softly.

Dean snorted, but remained quiet behind him.

"But that box is very sentimental to him," Sam stated kindly while digging into his pocket. "Maybe we could." He inclined his head, pet shop - puppy- eyes a blazing. "Make some sort of a deal." He flashed a teeth-whitening smile drawing his wallet and flicking out a twenty.

"Ask for fifty." The shop owner nudged an elbow at Hat-lady – Mrs. Winfield. "Twenty for me, thirty for you," he whispered.

"No." Hat-lady shook her head vigorously, small hands gnarled in stubborn refusal at her sides. "I don't make deals," she snipped.

"Sweetheart, you're being as ridiculous as that fake dead thing on your head," Dean snarled irritably.

"Well, I never," Mrs. Winfield gasped, utterly appalled.

"Good thing too," Dean clucked seriously.

The woman gasped, pressing a hand to her chest as if she were about to have a mini heart attack.

Sam cringed, shoulders drawing up to his ears. "Not helping, Dean."

"You heard Mrs. Winfield," the Not-so Holly-Jolly owner stated boldly. "No deals." He fiercely shoved the tip of the bat into Sam's chest. "Give that shit back and get out."

"Oh, screw this dickering Dick." Dean stepped defensively out from behind Sam shoving the bat away from his brother's chest. "Threatening my brother," he yelled. "Not a good idea."

The shop owner bravely shoved the tip of the bat into Dean's chest instead. "Then I'll threaten you," he justified.

Dean went ramrod straight, fists balled, barely holding his anger in check. "Sammy," he gritted out his teeth.

"We didn't mean to upset anyone." Sam jumped in before Dean could punch the guy out. "That." He pointed to the box still in Dean's possession deciding to just go with honesty. "It's a cruse box…it's designed to keep evil things locked away and when Hat-lady…'eh…I mean when Mrs. Winfield opened it she let out whatever evil was inside and now it's somewhere in your shop and we are all in danger," he rattled off in all seriousness.

"Like a Pandora's box?" The shop keeper frowned in concentration.

"Yes, like that," Sam said hopefully, thinking they might be finally getting somewhere. "Like a Pandora's box."

"That's nonsense!" Mrs. Winfield and the shop owner squawked in unison.

"I know it's hard to believe," Sam muttered. "But you have to trust – "

Something walnut-sized suddenly whizzed past Sam's head in a fast blur. "Aw!" He crumpled to the floor, a hand pressed against the right side of his head.

"Sam!" Dean dropped down at his side. "Sammy?" He grabbed Sam's hand and yanked it away.

Sam's earlobe was beet-red and practically throbbing.

"You okay, there, Van Gogh?" Dean hunched over Sam protectively.

"Terrif…guh," Sam groaned and clenched his teeth.

"Hooligan's," Hat-lady started to back away slowly. "They're here to rob –" Before she could finish, the walnut-sized blur was back, ricocheting off an old refrigerator, zigzagging through the air, and smashing into her hat sending it flying off her head, and sending the robust woman to the floor with a solid thump.

"Mrs. Winfield!" The shop owner cried, running to the unmoving woman's side and automatically searching her for a pulse. "She's unconscious," he jumped back up to his feet. "What bullshit are you two trying to pull? Nobody's robbing my store." Holly-jolly shop owner raised his bat and aimed to swing it at Sam's head.

"No bullshit." Dean sprang to his feet. "Give me that." He stepped forward and boldly ripped the bat from Holly-jolly's hands raising it up to his shoulders in a hitters stance. "You do that to my brother, I do that to you." Dean's rage festered as he choked higher up on the bat.

"Whoa!" The man stumbled backward, horrified. "Don't hurt me." He raised his hands up to his face for protection.

"We are not here to rob or hurt you," Sam raised his voice two octives. "Are we, Dean?" he asked trying to push the bat in Dean's hand down.

"Debatable." Dean lowered the slugger.

Something crash-landed to the floor and the gangly teenager from earlier darted around the corner. "It's after me." He slipped on the floor and fell to his face.

The fleshy-pink sphere – now about the size of a meatball ball – burst around the corner, and bounced off a dresser. It had a horrendous looking face, with bloodshot eyes popping out and a mouth full of sharp, white teeth snapping at everyone as it whizzed around them like stinging bee.

"Incoming." Dean ducked as the ball ricocheted off every, and any, surface it could find. "Not only is it a speedy bastard…it can change sizes too," Dean yelped in surprise.

"Crap." Sam spun away just as the rubber missile hammered itself into a wall behind him, then shot back.

"Double crap." Dean shrieked as the ball grew to the size of a grape-fruit and dive bombed him like a fat, angry bird.

"Hit the friggin deck," Dean shouted going to his knees so hard the bat flew from his hands and slid beyond his reach.

The sphere went dribbling across the floor, sharp teeth now nipping at the shop owner's heels.

"Get it the hell away from me," the shop owner cried as the ball bounced after him, pursuing him in circles around a coat rack.

The ball, seemingly board of the chase game suddenly flung itself into a Norman Rockwell Christmas plate hanging on the wall and cracking Santa Clause in half, then spinning wildly off with remarkable reverse English.

"Friggin' crazy!" Dean yelped trying to crawl toward the bat like a solider on his belly as the ball zipped back and forth overhead. "Sammy?" He raised up slightly to peer over at Sam who'd found safety under an old kitchen table.

Finally the ball went charging down an aisle and out of sight.

Sam crawled out from under the table, and came to stand in front of Dean, offering him a hand, both heaving for breath.

"How's the ear?" Dean peered at the swollen-red lobe.

Sam winced. "Okay, I guess. So what do you think?" he asked Dean.

"I think that hacky sack is toast."

As if said 'hacky sack' heard Dean, the ball shot out of nowhere like a skyrocket. Back to the size of a walnut it bounced off the floor with sonic speed and launched up to the ceiling repeatedly, smashing the long fluorescent light bulbs as it went.

"Watch out." Dean shoulder-rammed Sam off to the side, flanking them against a wall as shards of glass tinkled down like a rainstorm. "Get the hell out of there," he yelled at the shop owner and his son, who were on the floor hunched over Mrs. Winfield. "Move!" he waved frantically at them.

Father and son scrambled off the floor, sparing a second to pick Mrs. Winfield up, each taking her by a floppy arm and dragging her between them as they made their way toward the basement steps.

The ball morphed into the size of a cantaloupe. Googly eyes rolling and teeth chomping, it bounced their way with kinetic energy slamming into the basement door just as the shop owner closed it behind them. It lingered there a moment bouncing up and down in place as if debating how to twist the doorknob, then shrunk back to the size of a walnut and spun around.

Its eyes narrowed at Sam and Dean, a demonic toothy smile spreading across its rubber-like face.

"What's it doing?" Sam questioned skittishly.

"Whatever it is…it's not doing it," Dean growled, all spit and furry. "Your fugly ass is going back in that box." he pointed a finger at the ball. "You understand me?"

The ball ballooned to the size of a watermelon.

"Uh, Dean, I don't think its fugly ass understands," Sam nervously spouted watching the ball quiver and shake.

Dean nodded and swallowed hard as the ball shrunk back to the size of a walnut and darted off doing a hairpin dive around the corner. "Want to know something worse, Sammy?" he asked cringing at the sound of the ball causing major destruction on the other end of the store.

"What?"

Dean turned to face Sam. "I don't think it even has an ass. Ha!"

B**if! Smash! Wham-o!**

"Not funny, Dean." Sam flinched at what sounded like a lot of dishes shattering to the floor. "That thing won't stop ricocheting. If it breaks a window and gets out of this shop it'll be…" Sam let the sentence hang.

"…pandemonium, black outs, car accidents and who knows what else," Dean finished.

Sam stepped away from the wall feeling a little jittery, and looked at the box still in Dean's hand. "What's in the box?"

"It's too small for Gwyneth's head," Dean joked, giving Sam a sloppy grin.

Sam silently looked at Dean and twisted his mouth, unamused.

"Duh, Sam," Dean sighed. "Obviously it was the monster ball."

"Duh, Dean," Sam huffed. "I mean… maybe there's some sort of inscription or something to tell us how to trap or destroy the thing."

"Huh," Dean quirked a brow. "Glad I thought of that," he said, giving Sam a good old-fashion wink.

"Just look will you?" Sam insisted, squinting impatiently at Dean.

"Yup," Dean sucked in a breath and carefully opened the lid to peer inside, running his fingers all along the wood in search of.

Sam leaned over his shoulder. "Nothing, there." He looked back at Dean.

"Zip," Dean exhaled, closing the lid.

"We have to get that thing back in the box fast."

"Pretty sure," Dean said quickly, "Bouncy-trouncy-flouncy-pouncy-fun-fun-fun-fun- fun isn't going to be too cooperative," Dean grunted.

"Probably not," Sam replied, giving the store a searching look upon hearing more things go crash-boom-bam.

"Got any suggestions?" Dean asked, shoulders shrinking up to his ears at all the racket.

"Um?" Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Got it!" he squeaked, eyes popping wide as he rushed forward bending down to pick up the shop owner's baseball bat still lying on the floor a few feet away.

"Dude, you're going to try and Hank Aaron Flubber back into the box?"

"Do you have any better ideas?" Sam challenged.

"Nope," Dean replied quickly.

They both frowned in concentration hearing another crash occur.

"Good," Sam stalked off toward the sounds of destruction. "Just stay close and keep that box open," he instructed slinging the bat up to his shoulder.

**Please turn the page…**


	3. Strike! You're Out!

Chapter Three

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"Sam."

A voice was calling to him, but it sounded miles away.

"Sammy."

Everything was dapple-grey and spotty and he couldn't catch his breath, sucking air in through his mouth and snorting it out through his nose. Sam's eyes slivered slightly open, someone was in his personal space, but he couldn't really focus on who. He couldn't think straight, every part of him stung and burned, especially his chest. He gagged, letting out a sorry excuse for a moan, a lump of air jailed in his throat

"No. Oh, no you don't." That someone screamed in his ear, two hands grabbing his shoulders and shaking the daylights out of him."Damn it, Sam!"

Frantic, Sam reached out snatching a handful of something worn and buttery soft. His mind was dimmer than a bulb and there was a buzzing in his head. His heart began to pound heavily in his chest and he thrashed about trying to find his feet.

"For the love of… will you catch your breath already?" The face before him had a serious look going on, a hand now tapping annoyingly at his cheek, the person sounding pissed and completely terrified.

Sam took in a deep breath.

"Okay, okay, that's it. We're getting there," The voice was gentler now.

Sam looked lazily around. Everything was blurry and his mind scrambled for explanation. He was sitting on his ass, leaning against a wall, his ear lobe thudding along with his brain - both to the beat of his heart.

"Hey." A strong hand squeezed his arm. "Need you here with me, bro, before that monster ball comes back."

At the word 'monster' Sam jolted. "Where? What?" he wheezed, hands and legs fluttering to protect himself from whatever…whoever…however.

"Whoa, chill Rocky, what the hell are you doing?"

His hands were captured and held firm by one hand locked around his writs, while another hand knuckle-rubbed up and down the length of his sternum. "Sammy! Said I friggin' need you with me. Look at me. Sam! Look at me."

Sam had no choice but to suck in a few more huge gulps of air, ungluing his lungs and oxygenating his fuzzy brain further. "Ummm. ?" He stared in bewilderment at the person crouched next to him. The fuzzy-twisted face full of bruises and red marks swam into focus. "You mean…when did I…Dean?" he realized, cocking his head.

Dean stared deeply into Sam's eyes, a grim look on his face. "Can you get up?"

"Umm? I…ummm." The question made Sam blink and pause for thought. He felt like an overused punching bag from his ears down to his belly button. "No," he replied, just wanting to sleep and he let his eyes roll back up into his head.

"Sammy! Come on!" Cold fingers gripped his chin and dug in firm.

Instinctually, Sam reached out and blindly and feebly smacked Dean's hand away. "Fine." he tried to stand, but instead doubled over in agony. "Owf." A word not found in any dictionary here or abroad escaped his lips.

"Easy." Dean grimaced with sympathy pains as he let go of Sam's chin to grip the back of his neck.

"Wha'….what happened?"

"Your brilliant plan didn't work. Got the breath knocked out of you," Dean uttered in frustration.

Sam shifted to stand, the 'owf' word escaping his lips again and sending him back to his ass.

"Okay hold up." Dean laid a hand flat to Sam's chest.

"Aww-ha-ha," Sam winced at the contact.

"Just give yourself a few more minutes," Dean bit out roughly.

"I'll take five," Sam slurred, thick-tongued and dizzy.

"You always did suck at dodge ball," Dean hissed, remembering having to drag his brother away from the whipping balls on the court countless times when they were younger.

"Wha'?"

"You friggin' pissed it off, that's what. Got nailed with a ninety-mile-an-hour monster ball." A beat. "Like fifty times." Dean's eyes shifted toward the floor. "You're one giant contusion, man."

Sam slowly followed Dean's gaze.

The baseball bat lay splintered and broken, cracked in half only a few inches away.

"Crap," Sam hissed, his memory coming back full swing - pun intended.

"Yeah, crap," Dean repeated.

Sam eyed Dean up and down. Of what he could see, Dean was just about as contused, moving stiffly, red welts and bruises on his arms and neck and right cheek. "And you didn't?" Sam chuffed.

"Someone had to cover all the bases while you were out."

Sam nodded slowly. "We get it in the box?"

Dean pulled 'said' box over and opened the lid. "Hank Aaron you are not, little brother."

Sam frowned. "Where'd it go?" He titled his head, gaze darting around the room in all directions.

"After it goose-egged you it kangaroo-hopped to who knows where."

"Help me." Sam fisted the front of Dean's jacket.

Dean slowly pulled Sam up.

Sam stumbled back a little unsteady and his knees bowed.

"Whoa. Whoa." Dean reined Sam in joining their hips. "Keep your feet, Sammy." He gave the kid a hard-eyed glare.

Sam panted heavily, "I'm standing."

Dean snorted, "Melted cheese on a stick could stand up better," Dean said, holding Sam closer.

"I'm good, Dean." Sam drew himself up straighter for proof. "Gah," he moaned, hunching back over, his hand swiftly coming up to press against his left side.

"Let me see." Dean shifted Sam a little and had his t-shirt pulled up before Sam could stop him. "That misfitted –" he squawked. "God." His fingers tracked the large reddish-purple bruise forming along Sam's ribcage using a feathery-light touch. "Were you going to tell me about this?" Dean searched Sam's face.

"I didn't know," Sam hissed his right eye twitching as it continued to swell up.

"Good news is nothing's broken, but that's going to be a doozie of a shiner," Dean said, lowering Sam's shirt and tenderly poking at the soft gel-like skin around Sam's eye.

"Not our biggest problem here, Dean," Sam pulled his head away from the touch, hearing the monster ball exploding around the store in a fit of rage. "So, now what do we want to do? Shoot it?" Sam asked, knowing their guns were in the car.

"Watch out!" They both yelped rocking off their feet as the ball swept wildly past them, and out of sight, more sounds of breakage filling the room.

"Friggin' fugly piece of rubber," Dean yelled. "Don't think that's an option, Sammy," Dean took note. "That thing's faster than a speeding bullet. Be like trying to shoot a humming bird in flight," he muttered distractedly, spying something of interest on a shelf not far from them. "We'd more than likely shoot-up the whole store including each other first." Dean paused, puzzled as he continued to scrutinize the shelf.

"Right," Sam agreed. "Maybe we could try to salt and burn it, but again, we'd have to catch it first."

"Not going to happen," Dean tisked. "What is that, Mr. Know-it-all?" he pointed to a giant, chrome box with a turn dial.

Sam inclined his head, wrinkling his brow. "I think maybe it's one of the very first microwaves," he said with a touch of awe. "Probably a 1955 model."

Dean gaped at Sam.

"What?" Sam asked innocently.

"You take a college course in Geek mythology?" Dean grilled.

"Antique archeology actually," Sam stated flatly, going back to studying the microwave, his face lighting up. "You uh, you remember that time?" He side glanced over at Dean.

"You bet," Dean laughed like a mad scientist. "Dad was heated. Cost him our security deposit."

"Do you think?" Sam raised his brows high on his forehead.

"G.E. the bitch?" Dean grinned manically.

"Could work," Sam said thoughtfully.

"Awesome! We have a plan," Dean announced joyously as he stepped away from Sam and fumbled for the old relic's cord. It was long and black and frayed in some spots. "Then again," he picked at the exposed wires, his smile fading. "We might get electrocuted trying to plug this baby in."

"Only one way to know," Sam said, turning briskly and searching along a wall for an outlet. "Over here," he pointed behind a moldy antique sea trunk.

"Worth a try." Dean gripped the sides of the microwave.

Sam took up the other end.

"On three," Dean instructed.

They picked up the dented oven. It was heavy and cumbersome.

Using one hand, and awkwardly holding the microwave with his other, Sam swiped off a shelf full of pots and pans. They clattered loudly to the floor as they set the microwave down. Both brother's wary of another surprise attack from the speed demon ball.

"Hold on to your butt," Dean took up the cord and bent toward the plug.

Sam firmly gripped Dean's bicep, stopping him. "Why you?"

"I'm the oldest," Dean shook Sam's hand free. Without hesitation, he pushed the plug into the wall socket, and swiftly stood stumbling backward two steps.

The microwave safely dinged to life.

"Whew." Dean swiped a hand across his sweaty brow.

"Okay," Sam sighed. "So now how do we plan on getting it in there?"

Dean thought for a second, and then a slight smile came to his face.

"I don't like that look." Sam pressed his lips together.

Dean gave an evil smile and dug into his pocket. "The Candy-man can," he said, pulling out the bag of M&M's and rattling a few colored pieces out onto his palm.

He opened the microwave door and dropped a few of the colored candies inside, then turned to Sam. "Wait here. Be ready to slam that door shut the second pinball wizard is in there." He started to walk away toward the sound of yet more destruction.

"Hey, wait up." Sam protested worriedly, keeping pace at Dean's side.

"It's my turn to bat."

Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulders and spun him so they were facing one another. "Dean."

Dean yanked away from Sam's hold. "Look, buddy, I have two good eyes and you're not going to be running at full steam with that bruise on your side."

Sam gave a put upon sigh and bit into his lip, a scowl forming between his eyebrows.

"Just man the microwave, man." Dean twisted away from Sam marching off.

**Please turn the page…**


	4. Great Balls of Fire!

Chapter Five

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Clutching tightly to his bag of M &M's, Dean flew around a corner bolting down a long coat aisle. Taking in lungful's of air he looked over his shoulder as he ran, not seeing the Super Ball that had, just a second ago, been trying to take a chomp out of his assets.

He slowed and turned, jogging backwards as he wiped drops of perspiration from his eyes. "Come and munch on this, you deranged leg lamp breaking freak," Dean screamed furiously, dumping some of the M&M's into his mouth. "Mmmmmm, tastes good, come and get it you lousy ball buster," he goaded.

The resilient bouncy ball suddenly appeared leap-frogging out of left field.

_Whhooooshhhh!_ It slammed into an avocado-colored refrigerator. _Zooommmm!_ It bounced in-between Deans' legs.

Demonstrating awesome Globetrotter skills, Dean twisted left just barely avoiding certain disaster. "MVP basketball player in da' house," he chimed, the now walnut-sized ball shooting away from him and lobbing over a bookshelf. His relief was short lived as the screaming meme boomeranged back toward him with more gusto then ever, and taking pot shots. "H-hell," he grimaced at the stinging pain of each hit. "So going to burn up the court with you," Dean threatened, dipping and dodging the super charged ball. "Can't touch this," Dean boasted just as the sphere got in yet another good hit to his upper back. "Aw!" he yelped. _Damn it, he used to be awesome at dodge ball. _He turned a corner, and bracing himself for another possible impact just as Sam came into sight.

"Dean! Come on! Come on! Faster! Run faster." Sam frantically waved him forward.

Dean poured on the speed.

"Duck!" Sam hollered.

Dean ducked low at the same time launching the bag of M&Ms into the microwave as he raced past. "Dodge that, bitch," said with great satisfaction.

With red-hot fury the mindless ball went for the bait, banging into the microwave going straight for the bait.

Sam slapped the microwave door shut with a loud bang, immediately cranking the dial of the oven up to five minutes.

The effects of the microwave were immediate. Electricity arched, crackled, and sizzled. All the colors of the rainbow making for a spectacular neon-light show.

The Super Ball bounced from side-to-side-to-side, denting the metal outward as it tried to escape.

The oven began to shimmy and shake and slide about on the shelf. Inside, sparks continued to fly as the monster ball banged about.

"Think it will hold?" Sam took a step forward, gripping the sides of the microwave to keep it steady on the shelf. "Holy…that's hot!" he let lose stumbling back a step.

"Sam." Dean hurried over and grabbed Sam's hands and turned them over inspecting his reddened palms. "Damn it, Sammy you're burnt."

"It's okay…I'm okay." Sam tugged his hands away and cradled them to his chest. "It's not bad."

Half a second later there was a small popping sound and the chaos inside the microwave went quiet, and the large appliance stopped shimming about.

"Is it nuked?" Sam asked, noting the microwave still had another two minutes left on the dial.

Dean crowded in and bent forward peering inside the small viewing window. "How cool is that, Sammy?"

"How would I know, Dean? You make a better door than a window." Sam elbowed his hog of a brother. "Make room."

Dean shuffled over half a step, and they both stood bent forward side-by- side, shoulder-to shoulder watching for a minute.

"Huh?" Sam broke the silence first, cocking his head off to one side. "It's like… bubbling," he observed.

"Bubbling?" Dean bulked. "It's practically on fire."

"Think it's dead?" Sam asked skeptically.

"I can't tell," Dean niggled closer to the small window. "It's just sitting there, going around in circles on the carousel … how long has it been cooking?" Dean asked, not taking his eyes off the ball.

Sam gave a brief one-eyed glance at the turn dial timer. "Under four minutes. Dean, maybe we should -"

The ball suddenly jumped from where it sat on the carousel, slamming against the window, teeth gnashing and screaming with anger.

"Yikes!" Sam and Dean screeched and reared simultaneously.

"Frogger's still alive." Dean was the first to step back up to the plate. "You're going to die camel balls...'eh ball," he taunted, thumping the view glass with a heavy fist.

"You really do have a problem," Sam groused, hanging back slightly this time.

"Pretty sure, I'm not the one with the problem here, Sam," Dean said watching as the ball kept jawing at the inside of the microwave door, threatening to break through.

A small timer bell dinged.

Dean straightened, looking back at Sam. "You think it needs to cook longer?"

Sam shrugged.

The metallic clicks and snaps and buzzing light grew inside the microwave, and a large puff of black smoke blackened the view window.

"That can't be good." Sam grabbed his brother's arm, yanking Dean away a few feet.

**Zap! **

**Pop!**

**Pop!**

**Pop!**

**Blam-0!**

The door to the microwave blew off.

Sam and Dean dropped to their knees just in time covering their heads with their hands.

The microwave door whizzed overhead, landed on the floor, and then skidded off.

Dean raised his head first and peered cautiously from under his arm over at the smoking, blackened microwave.

Everything was quiet and still.

"Hope you like your nuts roasted, Sammy," Dean chuckled.

"Problem, Dean," Sam huffed in exasperation, then sniffed the air. "Oh, man, smells like your burnt eggs."

"Dude, leave my eggs out of this," Dean warned.

They waited a few more minutes, the smoke finally clearing to reveal chunky colored pieces of flesh and blood coating the inside of the appliance like paint.

"It worked," Sam said in shock.

"Fist bump," Dean cooed, clenching his right hand and raising his knuckles to Sam. "That's one nifty-difty machine." He waggled his fist waiting for Sam to bump him.

"Nifty-difty, Dean?" Sam rolled his eyes, ignoring Dean's gesture.

"Shuddup." Dean uncurled his fist and reached over to take Sam by the arm, bringing them both up to their feet. "Just have one question for you, Sammy boy."

"What?"

"Exactly," Dean stated. "What do we do with the exploding ball now?" Dean chuckled. "Eat it? Wash it down with some beer?"

"Gross," Sam tsked.

The basement door suddenly burst open wide, and the shop owner stormed over spurting obscenities as he looked over the damage done to his store.

"What the hell was that thing?" he screeched, eyes drawn to the busted up microwave.

"I could tell you, but you wouldn't believe us," Dean retorted, looking over to see Hat- lady and the young apprentice – Ralphie – just now stumbling up the stairs, traumatized looks on both their faces. "You should just go take care of your son and Beaver….Mrs. Winfield," he corrected at the last second.

"I should call the cops and you should just kiss my lily white ass," the owner challenged heatedly.

Dean went tense and still. "And you should be thanking our lily white asses for saving your lily white asses you stupid lily white a–"

"Dean!" Sam cried, stepping in front of his brother, one hand pressing to his chest holding him in check. "My brother and I are so very sorry for any damages done here," Sam said politely.

The shop owner looked past Sam eyeballing Dean scrupulously.

Aren't' we Dean?" Sam prodded.

"Sorry my lily – "

Sam fisted Dean's shirt and gave him a solid _work with me_ shake.

"Yeah, sure, sorry," Dean drawled out.

Sam relaxed and let go his hold, digging into his pocket for his wallet. "This should generously cover it." He put a one hundred dollar bill into the shop owner's hand.

Behind Sam Dean huffed out a frustrated breath.

"More generous," The shop owner wiggled his fingers greedily at Sam, all the while looking into Dean's face with a taunting smile. "After all, poor Ralphie has to mop all this shit up, and Mrs. Winfield is going to need a new badger hat."

"Ushanka," Sam inputted.

"Don't make me mop the floor with your ass," The shop owner growled, directing his attention at Sam's wallet.

Dean snarled, taking a step forward. "You piece of –"

"Yes, of course." Sam shrugged Dean back, pulling out another hundred and held it up in the air.

The shop owner made a grab for the cash, but Sam snatched it back at the last second. "Two things first," Sam haggled.

"Yeah, what?" The shop owner tapped his foot impatiently.

"One," Sam said firmly. "We take that microwave off your hands."

"Why?"

"Because nothing says it's the holidays like a gooey TV dinner," Dean grouched sarcastically.

"Fine," The owner spat. "And what's the second thing?"

"That." Sam cast a nod at the owner's shirt pocket.

"Deal," the shop owner said, cheerfully pulling the black permanent marker from his pocket and passing it over to Sam.

Sam handed over the hundred.

"We're square," The not-so holly jolly shop owner said with an edge of authority in his tone. "You've got 8 minutes to get that hunk of tin and yourselves out of my sight," he growled turning on his heels and heading over to help his son take Mrs. Winfield to the office where they'd hopefully be able to calm her down.

"Don't you think another B-spot just for a magic marker is a bit steep?" Dean complained.

Sam pulled the marker's cap off with his teeth and spit the cap to the floor as he quickly started to draw sigils on the outside of the microwave.

"Homemade curse box," Dean gave a proud nod followed by a low whistle of appreciation. "Smooth, my dear brother, real smooth."

"Didn't take a crash course in Geek Mythology for nothing," Sam said with a smile as he kept drawing.

"Yeah, well you best start thinking about taking a crash course in our finances, and soon. We're broke. Again." Dean peered at the bits of meaty membrane. "I think we should bury yummy, tummy Gummy Bear six-feet down in a graveyard to boot."

"Agreed," Sam said, finishing up the sigils and taking up one side of the large microwave.

"Hey, Sam," Dean took up the other side and they both lifted carrying the vintage appliance toward the front door. "Be glad it was only one ball, man, wouldn't want to see two exploding balls now would we?" Dean gave a whole-bodied shiver.

Sam winced. "No, we would not."

**And one more time. Please turn the page...**


	5. Here Comes the Sappy

**TAG**

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They'd found a quiet old cemetery and buried the microwave deep in the ground behind an old caretaker's shed. It was slow going as the ground was frozen, and two more feet of snow had fallen, but now they were settled back safely inside their home.

Dean parked them off the road, nestled and hidden between two large trees as the snow continued to fall like balls of cotton. They needed to rest and Sam wasn't looking so hot.

Frost had settled on the Impala's windows, the ice crystals branching out like an elaborate piece of modern art, while outside the wind whipped dunes of snow around the impala.

"We'll get back out on the road in the morning," Dean said casting a glance over at Sam.

Sam said nothing. The kid spinelessly sunk down into the seat, long legs tangled and crammed under the dash of the passenger side. He looked stiff and sore and cold, his eye puffed up had turned deep-purple, and involuntarily leaking a few tears.

"That eye's looks terrible," Dean commented. "Like an overripe plum."

"You over-describe," Sam mumbled, wiping at his cheek.

"Beats over-sharing," Dean shot back.

They both sat in silence a few moments, the snowfall mesmerizing.

Sam shifted in his seat, brushing once again at his irritated eye. "Ungh," he moaned low in his throat.

"Hey, you sure you're okay, over there, raccoon-eye?" Dean questioned softly, his breath fogging the air as the interior of the car cooled.

"I'm good. I'm fine. I'm okay." Sam gave a detached nod, turning his head away.

"Uh-huh." Dean said, nabbing both Sam's hands in his and turning them over, his palms were less red.

Sam squirmed uncomfortably under the scrutiny, and jerked his hands away. "I said, I'm fine, Dean. Nothing will ever hurt as much as loosing -" Sam stopped and swallowed, dark pain reflecting in his eyes.

_Jessica. _Dean didn't say the name out loud. Instead, nodded his understanding, and said nothing. Even though there were so many things he could say.

He bent over to grab their med kit under the seat. He opened the box and dug around. "This will help," he said, snapping the instant cold pack and positioning it over Sam's puffed, purple-black eye. "Hold that there, One-Eyed-Willie." Not waiting for Sam to obey, he picked up his brother's hand and placed it over the pack. "How's your side?"

"Sore, but I'll live."

Knowing that to be the truth, Dean reached in the back seat and pulled an extra-large, extra-thick blanket into the front seat, draping it over the two of them. Sam shivered again, flashing Dean a Mono Lisa of a smile and snuggling down under the cover.

Dean fisted his hands into the blanket. _No one should look that sad when they were smiling_ he thought, resisting the urge to physically wince and smiling back.

Sam was a giant mountain of sad – dehydrated from crying – on the inside mostly.

The pain Sam had been holding in was global and heading into universe-sized. He had to say something to relieve some of the weight bearing down on little brother's shoulders.

Dean opened his mouth tempted to try and patch up the giant hole in his little brother's heart. A hole that kept growing larger by the day and threatening to devour the kid's entire muscle…if not the entire man.

"Sam, I think we should –"

"Don't," Sam stated firmly, his smile now gone, breathing picking up sensing what was about to come out of Dean's mouth.

"Sammy –"

"Please." Sam shook his head rejecting the offer of comfort so venomously his body racked with tremors. "I can't," Sam panted, the mist of his breath fogging the windows. "Just…no, Dean," he said, staring without blinking, body stiffening up hard as rock, pale face turning dark and gray. "Please don't make me."

They sat quiet for a moment. Sam looking panicked, his good eye blurry with wetness.

Dean bit down on his tongue and frowned deeply. Sam always could channel his pain into him. The rush of fire and heartache aimed at Dean's heart was like a flamethrower gone berserk, nearly killing him.

Trying to draw Sam out and talk about Jessica was only going to end up in a lose-lose situation.

Dean suddenly had a wonderful idea and he laughed heartily. He was going to wait until tomorrow when they found a motel, but now was just as good a time. If plan A didn't work he'd go with plan Awesome- Big- Brother. "Don't make you what?" he asked feigning confusion. Whipping something out of his pocket, he hung it from the rearview mirror. "Celebrate Christmas with your awesome big brother?" he chuckled. "Not the worst fate in the world, my dear brother."

"But I thought…" Sam leaned forward peering closely at the plastic hanging ball with white berries, swaying from the mirror. "Mistletoe?" he croaked.

"Well, yeah." Dean whipped out an unfamiliar plaid-covered flask and waved it in the air. "Compliments of Holly Jolly," he answered Sam's unspoken question, handing Sam the container.

"You mean you pinched the man's booze?" Sam took away the ice pack from his bruised eye and let it fall to the seat beside him.

"Dude, the dude got paid plenty," Dean chuffed waving the flask underneath Sam's nose. "Just drink."

The warm smell of sweet rum, cinnamon and brown sugar enticed him to take a drink. "It does have a lot of extra kick," Sam said, giving in and slugging down a mouthful, savoring the flavor and the way it soothed his cold insides.

"That's my boy," Dean hummed.

Sam took an even bigger swallow, licking his lips appreciatively. "It's good," he admitted.

"Yeah, man," Dean said. "Save some for me."

Sam took another swallow.

"Sammy! I said save some for me!" In one fluidly efficient motion, Dean plucked the flask away from Sam mid-gulp replacing it with a crinkled up paper bag.

"Damnit Dean," Sam gurgled and coughed sputtering on the hot toddy that went down the wrong way. "What is this?" He stared at the crinkled bag in his hands.

"Christmas present,"

Sam dramatically shook his head, unruly hair flopping to cover his eyes. "When did you find time…?"

"Quit complaining and open it, bitch," Dean hissed, waiving an impatient hand.

"Who's complaining?" Sam clutched the bag tighter in his hands.

"Don't feel bad you didn't get me anything," Dean added.

"I don't feel bad," Sam said, mood suddenly brightening as he reached down under his seat. "You're not the only sneaky son of a bitch in this family," he chortled, producing a newspaper wrapped item and handing it over to Dean.

A huge smile spread across Dean's face. "When did you have time…?"

"Quit complaining and open it, jerk," Sam mocked.

Dean didn't need to be told twice. Ripping the paper off, he stared in wide-eyed wonder. "Zeppelin! Oh, wow, I don't have this one." He flipped the worn album cover over reverently.

"You don't have any of them," Sam pointed out.

"I know," Dean spoke softly looking up at Sam. "But I will, Sammy," he said. "I will. Open yours." He gave a chin tilt toward the bag in Sam's hand. "It's naked Beach Barbie," he joked.

"As long as it's not naked Ken," Sam volleyed opening the sack and pulling out a green-stained book.

Sam just sat looking at the book with his one good eye. "I….we…this was the last book we…I mean…" Sam shook his head unable to speak.

"You like?" Dean asked.

Sam didn't exhibit any indication that he'd heard him.

Dean gingerly placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Hey," he whispered.

"I like," Sam muttered. Not wanting to tell Dean that this was the last book he and Jessica read together. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"We're not about to get all girly up in here are we?"

Sam sniffed and his brow knit into a scowl.

"Yeah, I thought so." Dean produced a bottle. "It's time to get flat on our faces drunk." Dean cracked the cap open and took a swig, then handed the whiskey over to Sam.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

An hour later the bottle and the shop owner's flask were completely gone.

"Need more." Sam slurred, lounging all limp arms and legs in the passenger seat, and jiggling the empty bottle as he flopped sideways into Dean.

"I wouldn't advice that," Dean growled, squashed like a bug up against the driver side door. "You've had enough."

"Was your idea," Sam sniggered. "Get flat-faced drunk."

"Yeah, about that," Dean grouched. "How stupid was I?"

"Pretty stupid," Sam returned, bringing the empty bottle up to his lips and sucking on nothing but air.

Dean nabbed the bottle away from his brother and tossed the empty to the back seat. "You're not drinking anymore."

"Blah, blah, blah, blah." Sam made a huge project out of wiggling unnaturally about until he was cuddled further up against Dean, head nudging up under Dean's chin. "Need to get drunk," he jabbered.

"Sam, hate to inform you, buddy, but you're already drunk." Dean grabbed Sam by the shirt sleeve and sat him upward.

"How drunk am I?" Sam reached out and pulled the mistletoe from the review mirror, dangling it over Dean's head and making smooching noises at Dean with his lips.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean batted the green kissing plant away like a mad cat.

Sam's smooching lips turned into a pout.

"Bro, on a scale from one to ten you're probably a 40," Dean hissed.

"Awesome," Sam snorted.

"Awesome?" Dean drew back, eyes wide.

Sam sat up and turned to face his brother bumping foreheads, his hot breath blowing in Dean's face. "You have green eyes," he giggled, tickling Dean's inner ear with an index finger.

"All right, that's enough." Dean roughly took Sam by the shoulders and held him at bay. "Of course I have green eyes. You know that. We've been brothers for how long?"

Sam frowned in concentration. "Ten…no wait…twenty….'eh….too long," he gave a harsh laugh.

"You're kidding me, right?" Dean shook his head in disbelief.

"You don't love me, man," Sam muttered drunkenly. He slithered to the flat of his back and worked his head around the steering wheel melting into Dean's lap as if it were a fluffy pillow.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean aimed a lethal glare down at Sam.

"Being drunk," Sam answered with a loopy grin.

"That does it." Dean opened his door and slid out from under Sam.

Sam's head thumped softly to the leather seat. "Wh-where you going?" he asked unhappily, titling his head far back trying to zero in on his brother with his one good eye. "Getting more booze?" Sam asked hand reaching outside toward Dean, fingers fumbling and snatching at the falling snowflakes trying to catch one.

"No more booze," Dean stated with firm authority. "Watch your fingers, Cyclops," he said grabbing Sam's hand and pressing it down against the kid's chest. "Just wait here," he barked shutting the door with a hard thunk. "Idiot," Dean mumbled as snowflakes battered into his face like a swarm of bees. He went to the trunk and rummaged around finding a pillow and extra blanket. "You know better than to get the kid drunk," he berated himself; taking a moment to snatch a few swallows of whiskey from the bottle he always kept hidden.

Slamming the trunk closed, he stamped through the deep snow to the rear door of the Impala and quickly opened it, tossing the pillow and blanket to the backseat. "Never learn, Dean, do you?" He left the door open and stepped up to the passenger side. Whipping the door open he found Sam still lying on his back. Cell phone pressed to his ear.

"I need my brother," Sam spoke to someone on the other line. "I…I can't find him."

"Sam, who the hell did you call? Hang up the phone."

"I…I'm drunk and I don't know where he went," Sam half-sobbed, face scrunched, good eye closed not acknowledging that he'd heard Dean.

Dean lunged inside the car and leaned across Sam's long body, trying to grab for the phone.

Sam twisted away. "He got me this great gift…and…and….he went out into the…the…the white stuff and…"

"Damn it." Dean backed out and grabbed Sam by the heels of his boots and started to drag him across the seat,

"Need my brother." Sam warbled, trembling and agitated.

"Sammy! Come! On! Out! Of there!" Dean grunted wrangling with the kid's legs that kept kicking at him in protest. Finally he brought Sam to sit on the edge of the seat, and ripped the phone out of the kid's hand, shoving it to his ear. "Who is this?"

"Dean!" Sam's eyes flew open, his whole body suddenly going lax as he stared at his brother smiling.

"Eduardo?" Dean clutched tighter to the phone. "In Mexico?" he squawked, flashing Sam a withering glare.

"Dean," Sam cried tearfully, hair all loose and long in his face, body shivering against the snowy night air.

"Alcoholico," Dean was still talking to whoever was on the other end of the phone. "Si, an extra spicy burrito in a dirty ashtray… great…yes…'eh…gracious. Adios, Eduardo." He hung up the phone and tossed it to the seat over Sam's head. "What the hell, Sammy?"

"You left me," Sam sobbed, poking his tongue out trying to catch a snowflake.

"Oh, for the friggin' love of –" Dean yanked Sam out of the car and brought him up to standing. "I wasn't even gone five minutes. Why'd you drunk dial a busboy in Mexico?" Dean snapped.

"Are we going to run for the boarder?" Sam barked out a laugh, knees dipping toward the ground.

"Not anytime soon," Dean said cooly dragging Sam back upward and supporting more of his weight. "Keep your feet under you."

"Where we going?" Sam slurred.

"Not we. You. You're going night-night in the back seat."

They took baby steps through the ankle deep snow, Sam tottering side to side. "You feel sick?" Dean panted out of breath, lowering Sam into the backseat.

Sam's head accidently thumped against the doorframe forgetting to duck.

"Ouch," Dean cringed, "That's going to leave a lump."

"Don't feel anything," Sam hiccupped. "I'm drunk." He cocked a head at Dean. "You drunk?"

"Yeah, bro, everybody's drunk, now lay back."

Sam hiccupped again.

"You sure you're not going to be sick?" Dean pressed a hand to the back of his neck.

Sam flashed a toothy-white grin. "Just a drill," he chortled, dimples deepening.

"Funny." Dean placed one knee on the seat, helping Sam to cram in all of his floppy over-cooked spaghetti limbs into the car. "Here we go." He arranged Sam flat to his back, head on the pillow and draped the blanket over him. "How you doin?" He hovered close.

Sam got a serious look on his face. He reached up a trembling hand and swiped at Dean's nose, bringing his hand down to stare at his thumb stuck between his middle and index finger. "I've got your nose," he chuckled.

"You think you're cute?"

"No, not cute," Sam uttered, shaking his head and then wishing he hadn't. "I'm going to regret this in the morning," he stated with certainty.

"Yeah you are," Dean agreed sympathetically.

Sam made an uncomfortable face and squirmed about on the seat.

"What now?" Dean leaned in closer.

"Not a drill," Sam's panicked arms urgently flailed, ineffectively trying to sit up.

"It's not morning yet," Dean whined, pushing Sam back down.

"Move." Sam shot right up and crawled on hands and knees toward the edge of the seat.

"Shit." Dean backed out of the car and out of the way as Sam dropped hung his head out the door toward the ground. "Oh, gah," he gagged and swallowed back the bile that wanted to rip its way out of him choking it back down.

"Whao, Sam." Dean quickly stepped closer, pressing a hard hand to Sam's back to keep him from falling completely out of the Impala.

"De'," Sam moaned and fidgeted under the contact.

"Come on, buddy," Dean whispered.

Sam white-knuckled Dean's pant leg as the winter wind stole his breath, his body jittery and shaking.

"Sammy, I know you hate throwing up worse than a bullet to bone, but you know the score. You just got to let it go, man. Trying to hold that chunky crap in is not going to help."

Sam growled, hot and cold flashes racking his body.

Dean bent over Sam sheltering him from the wind, and patting his back. "Know what's worse than throwing up? Being thrown up on," Dean said in all seriousness.

"Not helping," Sam dry heaved.

"How about not being able to chug down another bottle of whiskey?" Dean asked, his gentle pats now turned to more of a gentle thump.

Something deep inside Sam rumbled and his heart beat rapidly. Without another word from Dean he began to heave, the heavily falling snow covering the vomit quickly.

Between the chunks of vomit, Sam sucked in harsh breaths, back bowed, body sweaty and trembling with intensity.

"That's a boy. Be over soon," Dean's thumping turned to sliding fingers up and down Sam's spine. "Easy. Come on. Easy now."

Somewhere between the eighth and tenth hurl, Sam took a shuddering breath. Curled against the seat, his head hung so low his nose was nearly touching the pile of snow-covered vomit. "That sucked," he panted, body giving one final jolt.

"You going to make it?" Dean stopped rubbing Sam's back, but left his hand splayed there.

"Yeah," Sam said wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Bro, that was like a three-day event," Dean joked sympathetically, crawling into the backseat with him.

"Yeah it was," Sam agreed closing his eyes and let Dean guide him back inside the car. He could hear Dean talking, but he didn't understand the slur of words.

"Here we go."

Sam sensed himself being lifted, gripping hands hauling him up, twisting him about, and then settling him against a strong, broad chest.

Sam finally slipped open his one eye. Took a minute to orient himself. He and Dean were crammed into the back seat, the way they used to when they were kids. How they both fit now that he was a full-grown Sasquatch was a mystery.

Sam gave a half-sob-half chuckle, and then trembled hard.

"Relax yourself. You're good." Dean's shadowy face spoke softly as a bottle of water found his lips. "Drink. You need this."

Pain raced through Sam's stomach, but he gulped at the cool liquid anyway.

"A little slower, there buddy."

The water felt good and Sam gulped faster.

"Slow! Slowly," Dean barked drawing the bottle back a ways.

Sam stopped his ravishing gulps and sipped at the rim, taking in only a few more drops before Dean took the bottle away.

For a few moments he felt detached, lost in all that had just happened, the bouncy monster ball, their merry little Impala Christmas, his puking marathon, and something more sinister behind a closed door. His eyes fluttered and he sunk into semi-sleep.

Suddenly that closed door in his mind whipped open, so hard it slammed with a bang against the walls he kept trying to build. The unbelievable sadness and guilt of losing Jessica began to dig back into his brain and twist what was left of his soul.

He blinked up at the car's roof to see a sudden flash of blinding heat.

"Noooo!" Sam's arms and legs kicked outward, but he was going nowhere – as helpless as a turtle on his back. "No, no, no!" he yelled, pressing backward into leather, trying to escape the burn, the pain, the wide awake all-too-real dream.

"Sam. Sammy!"

Sam could hear his brother calling to him. He was conscious of being lifted upward, head pressed into the side of Dean's neck, a hand holding him in place.

"Jess! Jessica! Jessica! " Sam cried, breathing heavy, body stiff and shaking.

In his mind's eye, Sam saw Jessica clearly, the crackle of fire burning the hair off her scalp and flesh melting off her bones.

"C'mon." Dean ordered, sitting Sam upward and shaking him heartily. "Dream…it's a dream," he said over and over trying to keep his voice calm and steady. "Just a dream, Sammy."

Sam swam back to reality, finding himself staring at his big brother. "I'm okay," he muttered breathing short and shallow and feeling his face drain and go ghostly pale, the tension in his body increasing.

"This thing we do, Sam…it's got to stop," Dean said softly.

"What thing? Sam tried to force the tremors from his body, taking in a few deep breaths.

"This thing where you tell me you're lollipops and candy canes okay," Dean tightened his grip on Sam's arms, "When everything I am seeing about you screams you're not."

Sam knew he'd have to tell Dean about the dreams that were no longer dreams sooner or later. But he couldn't. Not just yet. He wasn't ready. Wanted …needed to have more answers. Understand it for him first. Yet, Dean deserved to know the truth.

"Dean," Sam tried. "I..I…" But he couldn't go on, exhaustion causing his eyes to slip closed.

"Just hang on to me, Sam." Dean wrapped an arm around him and pressed him further against his chest. "You're good. You're good," he repeated over and over. "Deep breaths….relax yourself," he said, carding his fingers over and over through Sam's damp hair."That's the ticket," Dean's gentle voice faded in and out.

Sam grew heavier and limper, naturally gravitating against his brother.

"Jess," Sam weakly gasped her name.

"It'll get better, Sammy," Dean said in a heartfelt tone, a warm palm held flat against Sam's neck. "Promise."

"Dean," Sam said weakly. "I'm a big boy. You can't promise me the unobtainable anymore. Because –'cause –" Sam zipped his mouth shut. He couldn't tell Dean…couldn't tell him he knew it was going to happen before it happened. That would be too hard. That would be admitting to himself it was his fault…he was the freak responsible for her death…even though he knew he was. Saying it just made it that much worse. And that scared the hell out of him.

"'Cause why, Sammy," Dean prodded.

"'Cause I hate being drunk," Sam moaned.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. Sam was still his baby brother, but yet he wasn't. He wasn't a kid anymore. He couldn't sooth Sam with half-truths and hopeful wishes and wholehearted promises anymore. "I know I can't," he whispered. "But will you do something for me?"

"Wha' something?" Sam garbled, his body temperature dropping a few degrees causing him to shiver.

Dean hugged Sam closer not answering and allowing a long pause to linger in the air.

He nodded to himself as Sam's breathing evened out into sleep and neck muscles relaxing as his head lulled to one side.

You may be a big boy," Dean sighed struggling to bring Sam's head more comfortably against his shoulder. "The biggest," he said sarcastically fingers combing through Sam's damp hair. "But if you don't stop beating the crap out of yourself…" Dean snarled in a very low hushed tone. "Look. We take this one step at a time, bro, and you let me lead the way…or I'm going to keep you this drunk from now on and you won't even realize it."

Sam stirred in his arms. "Is that a promise or a threat?" he garbled.

"Damn it, Sam, you're supposed to be asleep," Dean snapped in surprise.

"Is that a promise or a threat?" Sam repeated the question grumpily.

"Either way works for me, dude," Dean said arrogantly.

"Howzit either way you win-win," Sam babbled woozily.

"I'm friggin' talented." Dean smiled cockily, lowering Sam to the pillow, covering him up to his chin, and reaching behind him to open the door. "Now got to sleep for real," he ordered backing out into the cold. "Or I'll start singing Rock-A-Bye-Baby to you."

"De'….you're my… a…a…a… –"Sam rolled to his side and snuggled down into the leather.

"…awesome ray of golden sunshine?" Dean inserted with a happy grin.

"Jerk."

"Be nice, Sammy, this jerk is in charge of morning coffee." Dean patted Sam's calf and softly shut the door.

"You're my big brother," Sam breathed finally falling into drunken sleep.

The 'sappy' end

AN: Thank you for your time in reading!

Your homework: So what happened when Sam and Dean were kids that obviously involved a microwave and that John had to give up their security deposit over?


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